


The Last to Know

by PR Zed (przed)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-26
Updated: 2009-04-26
Packaged: 2017-10-18 20:26:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/przed/pseuds/PR%20Zed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I should have known better.  Bloody hell, I did know better.  But you know what Oscar Wilde said: "I can resist anything but temptation."</p><p>Susan's story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last to Know

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a [billboard](http://www.susanbodie.com/) I drove by practically every day for two months.
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely [](http://msmoat.livejournal.com/profile)[**msmoat**](http://msmoat.livejournal.com/).

I should have known better. Bloody hell, I did know better. But you know what Oscar Wilde said: "I can resist anything but temptation."

It all started badly, with blood in the streets and dead civilians and Ray Doyle gutted by guilt. None of it his fault, but the stupid lad still resigned the next day and disappeared up north before anyone could convince him to do otherwise. Wasn't too much of a surprise that he left. We were all sickened by that day and everyone knew Doyle took things harder than most. Anson had been running a pool for years on when he'd finally quit CI5. Jax won the pool, though he was smart enough not to brag about it in Bodie's hearing.

Bodie. Fucking Bodie. He's where my problems started.

After Doyle left, we all expected that Bodie'd moon around headquarters like a bloody dog whose master had died. Stood to reason, didn't it. We all knew how close those two were. Lived in each other's pockets, Cowley's original Bisto Kids. But what did he do? Nothing. Carried on as if nothing had happened. Meekly agreed to Cowley's decision to team him with Murphy. Did his job. Came out to the pub of an evening with the rest of us.

We all collectively held our breath, those first few weeks. Waiting for Bodie to explode, to quit, to find Doyle and drag him back, kicking and screaming, to George Cowley's fold. When that didn't happen, we all gradually relaxed our guard, started thinking we'd dodged a bullet. We hadn't, though. Doyle had pulled the trigger when he left, but it was a long shot. Took for-bloody-ever to travel its course, and I had cause to regret when it finally did reach its target.

A few more weeks and we all started forgetting about Ray Doyle. Or at least we didn't talk about him anymore. At first just not when Bodie was around. And then, not ever.

That was when it happened: Bodie started asking me out. _Come out for a drink, Susan. Care for dinner, Susan? Would you like to come up for a drink, Susan?_

I turned him down, of course. I flatter myself that I'm not bad looking, but I knew I wasn't up to Bodie's usual standards. Blonde, busty airhostesses and red-haired, leggy debs were more his usual run.

Thing was, he didn't give up. Kept asking me out, politely accepted my refusals and then tried again a few days later. Eventually I thought what could it hurt and accepted. Well, what would you do? I'm not made of stone, and he's a beautiful man.

I found, much to my surprise, that I enjoyed myself. Bodie was a lively and funny companion, and he seemed to honestly enjoy listening to me. I've been out with more than one man who couldn't give a rat's arse about a woman's opinion, so it was a nice change. I readily agreed to another date, and it was on that date I was succumbed to the patented Bodie sex appeal. All I'm going to say about _that_ is that he very much knows what he's doing.

So Bodie and I drifted into a relationship. Dinners at West End bistros and very good sex at his flat for afters. Besides the sex and companionship, it also didn't hurt that Bodie worked the same job. We've all killed more than one relationship when we've been called out in the middle of a date. I think it was worse for the women on the squad. Tough enough that your fella knows you're a crack shot and could kill a man with your bare hands, but then to have to leave him just when things heat up… never went over well, that.

Bodie and I, we were good together. Really good. He was kind and considerate, which somehow I'd never expected him to be, but--there's always a but, isn't there--it wasn't as great as I'd hoped. The spark he'd always seemed to have, the spark I'd been expecting, was missing. The old Bodie, the Bodie from before Doyle had left, he had real fire, real passion. The new Bodie, my Bodie, was lovely. He was more mature than the old model, more measured and considered, but I sometimes felt as if I'd been cheated of seeing that spark up close.

I tried not to dwell on that, though. And before I knew it, Bodie was wooing me. There were flowers, there were meals at ever more expensive restaurants, and then one night at a particularly posh spot, Bodie pulled out a ring and went down on one knee. I nearly told him to stop pratting about, but then I looked at his face and saw how serious he was. Deadly serious.

I know, I know, but I couldn't help myself. I said yes. Couldn't not, not with him looking at me as if I were his last hope. And me not entirely sure that he wasn't mine.

We got more than a few looks, when the rest of the squad found out. Cowley even took me aside and asked me if I was sure I knew what I was doing. I should have backed out then, but I was too happy. It seemed that deep down, I wanted my fairy tale wedding as much as all the other girls I'd been at school with. Not half embarrassing, realizing that about yourself, but I got over it.

Ruth organized a hen's night before the wedding. They all poured drinks down my throat and tried to pump me for juicy details. The interrogation training we all get didn't half pay off. Murphy and the lads took Bodie out for a stag and all I know about that is the epic hangovers all of them had after.

With the rush to make wedding plans and all the talk of our brilliant future, I somehow failed to notice that Bodie never talked about Ray Doyle. Except for once. It was a week before the wedding and we were sorting out Bodie's things, getting them ready for the move to our new flat. I came across a manky, red, plaid scarf stuffed at the back of Bodie's wardrobe and turned to ask him if he wanted me to bin it. Before I could say a word he snatched it from my hands and looked at it as if it was a booby-trap he'd accidentally sprung.

He apologized after a few seconds. Explained that the scarf was Doyle's. That he'd kept forgetting to give it back to him. That he probably should mail it off, except that he didn't know where Doyle was. That admission made Bodie flinch, and made me remember when I'd last seen that scarf: after the two of them had been sent on a hush hush Operation Susie. (And didn't I just hate _that_ particular designation.) No one except the two of them and Cowley knew exactly what had happened, but everyone was all too aware it had been a disaster. Doyle had been a snarling, barely leashed attack dog, snapping his way around headquarters, with Bodie the brooding, protective keeper at his back.

I should have pressed Bodie then. Should have, but didn't. I offer no excuse except that I was a woman in love, one who needed to protect that love from all comers. Even then, I probably knew the truth, even if I couldn't admit it to myself. Not yet.

Then the morning of the wedding, I nearly didn't go through with it. Threw a wobbly in front of Ruth and Sally, my two maids of honour. I'd been thinking too much, you see. I'd spent the night before mulling over that missing spark, wondering if I'd be doing us both a favour if I put a stop to the marriage right then.

For good or ill, Ruth calmed me down, Sally gave me a shot from the flask she'd hidden in her purse and I walked down the aisle. I married William Andrew Philip Bodie in front of God, George Cowley and every member of CI5 who could be spared for the ceremony.

Apart from that rocky start, it was a brilliant day, everything I could have hoped. I'm not sure why, but I took Bodie's name. Perversely, it seemed like the act of a rebel when everyone I knew who'd got married had kept her own name. Besides, I liked the sound of Susan Bodie.

We had a good couple of months, Bodie and I. Housing came up trumps and gave us a lovely flat in Kensington. We didn't get too many rum assignments, and neither of us had more than the occasional sprain or scrape. And we even got to spend most nights at home together.

Then the rot began to set in. One or the other of us always seemed to be off on some bloody assignment, undercover or on all night obbos. And the few times we were both home, we were too knackered to do anything except order Indian from the place down the street and fall into bed. And not for any amorous pursuits. Our sex life was as dead in the water as the rest of our home life.

And then _he_ came back.

I was at headquarters, heading for the rest room so I could put my feet up for a few minutes before I hit the streets again to search for a particularly nasty villain, when I rounded a corner and ran into someone. I looked up to give whoever it was a good bollocking and froze.

It was Ray Doyle.

He was looking, well, not good. Doyle always had been lean, but now he seemed absolutely cadaverous, nothing but skin stretched too tightly over bone. His eyes seemed bigger and that caved in cheekbone of his stood out more than ever.

He apologized before I could say a word then asked if he could talk to me. Dragged me into an empty office and then told me why he was there. Bodie may not have known where Doyle was, but George Cowley had. Seems that the Cow had let Doyle have his head for nearly a year, bided his time and then asked him back to CI5. Even asked him to partner with Bodie again, which was why Doyle wanted to talk to me. He wanted my permission. Told me he'd understand if I didn't want Bodie working with him. That if I didn't approve he'd leave and never darken the door of CI5 again. Or words to that effect.

Did I mention I should have known better? Because if the lay of the land hadn't been clear before, it should have been bloody crystal after that encounter. But I was an idiot. Or I didn't want to know, which is worse. So I gave my blessing and Doyle gave me a relieved smile and that was that.

Bodie wasn't quite himself that night. Gave me a frown when I mentioned that I'd seen Doyle, though I didn't share the subject of our conversation. He told me that he was teaming with Doyle again and muttered about him being a stupid pillock. I started to wonder at the wisdom of giving Doyle my blessing. To wonder if the Bisto Kids should be abandoned as a fond memory, one that couldn't be reclaimed or reproduced.

But then Bodie got his spark back. Or some of it, at any rate. The mischievous little boy humour he'd cast off reappeared first, followed by the suave charm that seemed his by right rather than effort. And in the bedroom…well, I won't talk about that, but let's just say the sex went from nearly nonexistent to epic.

It was a grand time for us, almost a second honeymoon, except for one thing: Ray Doyle seemed to be shadowing my life. I saw him far more often than I'd have liked. He was always popping by for dinner or showing up early to take Bodie for a run or asking us both round to his local. Not that I could fault his behaviour. He was always considerate to me, always tried to make sure I was included. But I couldn't help but resent the way Bodie lit up around him, and I couldn't stop being jealous of the way Doyle seemed to bring out the parts of Bodie I'd never thought to see.

A few more months passed and things started falling apart again. The IRA was making noises about another bombing campaign and our lot suddenly had more work than we knew what to do with. Some weeks I didn't see Bodie from Monday to Sunday. Others, we only saw each other at the end of long days when we only had the energy to collapse on the sofa and then drag ourselves to bed for a dreamless sleep.

I was on day five of a weeklong obbo in Brixton when I got that last call. Ruth had found our mad bombers, but not before they'd barricaded themselves in the Earl's Court hotel they'd been staying at and taken all the other guests hostage. Twenty civilians, five fanatical Irishmen and enough C4 explosive to leave a street-sized crater in London: it was worse than the op that had driven Doyle off in the first place.

The hotel was a bloody circus by the time I got there. The street was crawling with CI5 agents and the Met officers manning the barricades were looking none too pleased about it. I searched out Cowley, who was looking significantly older than he'd done that morning, and got my position. I ended up behind a garden wall with my husband and Doyle at the next house down. They nodded at me as I hunkered down and got ready for the signal to go.

I hadn't been there a minute when the shooting started. Impatient lot, the Irish, and it seemed as though they'd decided to shoot it out and let the devil take the hindmost. I ducked as a ricochet chipped off a piece of the wall and nearly caught me in the face. Then came the word: our snipers were to lay covering fire and the rest of us were going to charge the building. Not one of Cowley's more elegant plans, but with the amount of bullets our I.R.A. friends were putting into the street, I don't think he had any choice.

I held my breath as the snipers opened fire, and ten seconds later Cowley's voice came over the R/T telling us to move.

I don't know about the others, but crossing that road I ran faster than I'd ever done before. Not all of us ran fast enough. There were twenty agents who made that run; eighteen of us made it into the building.

I didn't even realize that someone had been hit until I noticed that Bodie was nowhere to be seen. A quick look 'round confirmed Doyle wasn't inside either. I turned to look out the door and there they were. Doyle was lying on the ground, the blood on the macadam visible even from where I stood. Bodie stood over him, shielding him and firing into the hotel with both their guns as our snipers tried desperately to keep them both from taking more fire.

Bodie's Shusai would have been proud of me: I didn't think; I just acted. I ran back into the street, grabbed Doyle by the collar and yelled at Bodie to help me. Together, we dragged him back behind the garden wall they'd started from.

I made the priority call while Bodie tried to staunch the bleeding. It was a leg wound, near enough the femoral artery to be worrying and bleeding like a bastard. Doyle looked grey and shocky and was battling to stay conscious. Bodie didn't look much better, with his hands covered in Doyle's blood and a look of panic on his face. From the lack of attention he paid me it was all too clear that Bodie had forgotten I was there.

Then Doyle lost his battle and passed out. And Bodie started to talk. _Stay with me, you bastard. Don't leave me again. Don't you dare leave me again. I won't let you go this time._

I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. It had taken me till then, but at that moment I finally _knew_. Knew it wasn't me Bodie loved. Knew I could only be second best.

Part of me, a part I'm not proud of, began to wish that Doyle would die, though I knew our marriage would never survive if he did. Doyle's death wouldn't kill Bodie, not literally, but it would forever snuff out the spark that only Doyle had been able to revive.

I watched over them both, a grim-faced sentinel, disconnected from my own emotions, my own feelings. The arrival of the ambulance brought me nothing but a sense of relief that soon I would no longer need to see or be responsible for either of them.

The ambulance attendant had a proper pressure bandage on the wound in seconds, and had bundled Doyle onto a stretcher not long after. Only then did Bodie seem to remember that I was there. He looked at me, clearly torn between the need to go with his partner and the duty to stay with his wife. All I could do was nod, give him my permission, my benediction. He responded with a tense smile and then he was gone.

The departure of the ambulance, with its wailing siren, seemed to break the spell that surrounded me. I went from feeling nothing at all to feeling far too much, as if all the nerves in my body had been seared and blistered, leaving me a burned out and gutted ruin. But with pain came clarity, and I knew what I had to do.

I helped the rest of the team with the cleanup in the hotel--they'd saved all of the hostages, but two of the bombers wouldn't live to cause mayhem another day--and then I drove home. Sitting cross-legged on the bed that Bodie and I had shared, I drafted my resignation letter. No way I was going to hang about CI5, knowing what I did. And then I went to the hospital.

Bodie was waiting in a corridor. He'd cleaned his hands, but Doyle's blood still marked his clothes. He looked almost panicked when he saw me, as if he didn't know what my reaction was going to be.

I didn't say much. I asked him how Doyle was, and he told me the surgeon had said it was touch and go, but that they thought he'd pull through. And then I told him I was going to give him a divorce.

He looked, well…relieved, and that hurt more than anything.

I silently wished him as well as I could and left before I said something I'd regret, something cruel. The last I saw him that night, he was waiting in that corridor, his face showing more hope than I'd seen from him in months. Possibly ever.

I went home long enough to pack up a few clothes and then drove over to Ruth's place. She put me up, no questions asked. The next day I gave Cowley my resignation. The Cow was very good about it. Told me he'd put in a word for me at Special Branch, which is how I've ended up where I am. In my darker moods, I wonder if Cowley'd had this planned for me all along, if he knew I was the target that Doyle's bullet would find. I wouldn't put it past the canny old bastard.

I'm content. I like my job, like the people I work with and I'm seeing a nice bloke. I don't know if I'll ever marry again, though, and I'm back to being plain old Susan Fischer.

I've only seen Bodie once since. It was on the job, CI5 providing added backup to a Special Branch operation. He and Doyle prowled into our ops room like they owned it. They did their usual double act, the one performed expressly for their own amusement, not giving a toss if there was anyone else in the world in the audience. It was too much for me. I couldn't find it in myself to be civil to either of them, so I slid out of the room before they saw me. But like Orpheus I couldn't resist one final glance behind me.

Bodie was talking--his words were lost in the general din of the room and I couldn't hear him, but knowing him he was telling a joke. As he finished speaking he turned to Doyle and gave him a look that made my heart twist in my chest. Just a casual look, but I knew my Bodie. I saw what lurked beneath the surface, beneath his boyish delight at sharing a joke that the rest of the buggers were too thick to grasp. I saw the depth of his feelings, how profound and irrevocable they were. I saw worlds in that look: understanding and delight, courage and anticipation, passion and commitment. And it struck me like a leap into frigid water how terrible it must be, to love that deeply having already lost it once. Knowing it all could be gone in an instant.

I quickly turned away, gripping my clipboard to hide the shaking of my hands. The closing of the door was a whisper behind me as I left the room. I walked down the hall, the clicking of my heels keeping the rhythm of my thoughts. I concentrated on the sound of it, the tick tick of each stride, as I tried to obliterate the knowledge of what I'd seen.

What they have, what I saw in that room, goes beyond the spark Bodie was missing with me. It eclipses anything most couples have. It's the sort of love poets write about. It's what we all dream of possessing. But in the world of CI5, a world of blood and betrayal, of death and deception, it can't be a comfortable love, not an easy one to live with.

In the end, I don't think I envy them at all.


End file.
